


The Alibi

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Light Bondage, M/M, Mild D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 18:30:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1479709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seeking a mythical oasis rumoured to be able to resurrect the dead, Merlin finds that when hope is driven by memory, all may not be as it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Alibi

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Merlin Reverse Bang for [sallyna_smile's art prompt](http://i.imgur.com/UGUgUVe.png), which has this accompanying description: _Merlin has been lonely for many years since Arthur's gone; one day an old sorcerer who senses his sadness tells him about an ancient legend: there is a well in the desert that can conjure the person you miss the most in the shape of sand. The person won't have the same memories of the loved one because it's a copy, but it can talk, touch and love just like any normal person. The sand-made copy can survive at anything until the real person is 'found', or in this case 'comes back'..._
> 
> Huge thanks to the organisers for putting together this lovely challenge, and to sallyna_smile for being amazing to work with! Please leave her some appreciation for her lovely and inspiring prompt at [her art post](http://sallyna-smile.livejournal.com/242736.html). :-)

**[Now.]**

 

‘You,’ Merlin says, ‘need to stay the fuck away from me.’

Sandman withdraws with a smirk, his hand dropping from Merlin’s waist. ‘Tonight, then.’ It’s not a question.

Merlin gives him a non-committal hum and bends over his test tubes again.

 

\--

 

The laboratory’s not much, really. A few carelessly-crafted wooden tables here and there, Bunsen burners and pipettes and beakers scattered over their surfaces. Merlin’s got a permanent frown etched in his forehead. Well, semi-permanent. It does go away at nights, when he’s in the small niche in the cave in which his rolled-up bed is tucked away. He hasn’t had sex with Sandman yet. Not technically, anyway, but no one’s counting.

Magic has changed over the centuries. Merlin’s still a Geiger counter for it, followed by it wherever he goes. He spent the better part of the last century away from it, miserable and angry at its uselessness, until he wandered into the desert in search of a rumour and ran into an old witch who told him a tale that filled him with such desperate hope that he fell for it. 

 

\--

 

That night, he gives in.

‘Hold me down,’ he says through gritted teeth, naked against his still-clothed companion. He can no longer bring himself to call him anything other than Sandman, as though the name could be scratched at with a fingernail to reveal another underneath. 

‘You still want to pretend,’ the other man laughs against his ear, soft and quiet. ‘Is it safer this way, Merlin? Is it easier?’

It’s because he finally isn’t pretending that he wants to be held down, but he doesn’t bother to explain, tries to shut his ears to the sound of a stranger’s familiar voice.

 

\--

 

He leaves the cave afterward. The moon is rising, the desert quiet and still around him. 

The oasis is deserted except for them and the witch who lives on its edges. Merlin’s been to see her a couple of times. Sometimes, he’s met with silence; sometimes, he’s laughed at and sent on his way. Tonight, Porphyria greets him with an uncharacteristic courteousness, offering him a clay mug full of a cool, dark green liquid that is so sweet and refreshing that he drains it quickly. He’s been living in the desert for weeks, and the simple enjoyment of taste is something he hasn’t been able to indulge in. (Sandman doesn’t need to eat or drink, naturally, but he does both with relish anyway, the tosser.)

It’s only when he opens his eyes that he remembers falling into sleep, the cup slipping from his hand and clinking against the stone floor.

He’s on cold, hard ground, uneven stones slimy beneath him.

‘About time,’ someone—a very familiar voice—says. 

Merlin blinks, pulls himself up on all fours. ‘Arthur?’

‘I suppose so.’ Arthur smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners the way they used to when he smiled a real smile, when he wasn’t laughing at the expense of Merlin or some other poor sod.

‘You suppose? Wait, did you follow me? I told you not to follow me.’

‘Excuse me? You’ve got it the wrong way round, Merlin. You were always the one following me, even though you were a terrible servant. George was so much more efficient.’

‘Wait a minute. I never told you about George.’ Sandman doesn’t remember Arthur because he was never Arthur. It makes things a whole lot easier to deal with.

‘And he never lied to me,’ the other man continues, as though Merlin hasn’t spoken.

‘I never lied to you about it,’ Merlin says, pulling himself to his feet. ‘I lied to Arthur. Are we in the well? Where’d the water go?’

‘You lied about it for years.’ A humourless laugh, a familiar raise of eyebrows. Sandman doesn’t have those little quirks. He isn’t Arthur.

‘Arthur?’

‘Have I changed so much in a few measly centuries that you don’t recognise me, Merlin?’

‘Arthur.’ Merlin tries to put his hand on the red cloak, but his fingers slip through it like water. ‘This is a spell, isn’t it? Porphyria!’

There’s no reply. 

 

\--

 

**[Then.]**

 

Porphyria was, apparently, the keeper of the lost oasis of Zerzura. Merlin had begun looking for it on a whim, having heard of the properties of a well that could resurrect the dead. Part of an almost infinitely vast stretch of desert that had been under water millennia ago, the oasis wasn’t difficult to find, at least not for someone with the innate ability to recognise magic disguising itself as the mundane; apparently, whole teams of explorers and cartographers had tried looking for it, but without success.

There had been no hospitality during their first meeting, no offer of the enigmatic green drink. Porphyria had an ageless beauty, snow white hair and crystal blue eyes that gazed unblinkingly at Merlin as she listened to him speak of his quest.

‘Uh, good morning,’ he’d said when he caught sight of her for the first time, standing at the mouth of a cave. He’d sensed magic rippling off her in invisible waves, and been convinced for a while that it was her presence that had led her to the oasis, rather than the rumoured well he’d come looking for.

‘I, er. I’m looking for a well. Don’t suppose you’ve seen one around here?’ he’d ventured.

The woman merely stared.

‘Do you speak English?’ He’d immediately felt foolish for asking the question, because it was apparent that she could understand him. The gaze turned scornful.

‘You must be the keeper,’ he said weakly, rapidly losing steam. He’d been walking for three days. ‘I heard… I need to know if what they say about it is true.’

She lifted a hand, a wrinkled finger pointing to one of the natural paths etched by the wind into the surrounding stone and sand. Merlin could’ve sworn that that particular path hadn’t been there a minute ago. He turned back to the woman, but she was no longer there. Reluctant to follow her into her cave uninvited, he set off down the path.

 

\--

 

The well was incongruous in its sheer sense of presence, an artificial structure encroaching on a natural space. It was obviously shallow, its broad mouth surrounded by a ring of oddly-shaped stones, their surfaces curiously smooth. Merlin had seen illustrations of similar wells in the books he’d researched for weeks before setting off on his search. Wedged between the stones and stretching across the diameter of the well was a narrow, roughly-hewn wooden beam supported by two wooden pillars, a thick hemp rope tied around its middle, evidently for a bucket.

Again, Merlin had the distinct sense that he’d been to this very spot before, but hadn’t caught sight of the well, like the path that seemed to have appeared at the woman’s bidding. Mildly annoyed at the idea of a magical object that apparently responded to someone else’s magic but not his own, he crouched down and peered into the well. Dark water shimmered greenly up at him, a floating reflection of his own face staring back up at him.

‘Well done.’ 

Merlin turned around to see the witch again, a faint smile on her face. She gestured vaguely at the well. ‘It doesn’t reveal itself to just anyone, you know.’

‘So you weren’t intending for me to find it?’

‘Why would I do that? I am Porphyria, keeper of the oasis, as you so astutely observed. My task is to protect this place.’

‘Who gave you that task?’

‘Why are you here, Merlin?’

Merlin straightened up, brushing sand off his jeans. ‘How do you know me?’

‘There are few in our world who haven’t heard of you, warlock. You are a long way from Avalon.’

‘So you know what I seek.’

‘I know that the oasis is deceitful, child. In the desert, nothing is as it seems.’

‘The stories are false, then?’

‘Nothing can bring someone back from the realm of the dead.’

‘I don’t believe that.’ Merlin stared back at the woman. She was standing on higher ground than him, and although she couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, he had the disconcerting feeling that she was much taller than him. ‘And I’m not a child.’

She smiled. ‘Compared to the age of the natural world, we are all infants. And I have lived much longer than you have, young warlock.’

The words brought back the memory of a time long past, and Merlin felt a pang of nostalgia. ‘Don’t call me that. I haven’t used my magic in a long time.’

‘And yet it stays within you, ready to be unleashed at a moment’s notice. You cannot deny who you are, Merlin.’

‘My magic had a purpose.’ Merlin looked away. 

The smile broadened. ‘And you think you will restore that purpose if you succeed in bringing your king back from the dead.’

‘He’s not dead.’

‘If the tales are to be believed, he died in your very arms.’

Merlin said nothing. 

‘Every person who has come looking for Zerzura,’ Porphyria continued, ‘has had the same selfish motive—to bring back someone they lost because they cannot bear to live without them. What makes you think you are different? Why would Zerzura bow to you, when it has not to everyone before you who has passed through the sacred oasis?’

‘I’m not selfish,’ Merlin said, but he knew he was lying.

 

\--

 

For the first three days, he had no success.

There were no guidebooks for how to ask an ancient well to give up its secrets. Merlin had tried everything short of throwing himself into the water, and on the evening of the third way, he tried that too, not succeeding in anything other than getting himself wet. 

The witch had appeared only once, warning him not to drink the water but not saying anything else. Merlin didn’t need a stubborn magic well to provide him with water; he had other means of seeing to his needs. Feeling recalcitrant, he dipped his travelling mug into the water and raised it to his lips. ‘Cheers!’ The word echoed in the empty space around him.

‘It’s not you who needs to drink the water, foolish boy.’ Porphyria had appeared as noiselessly as usual, and was gazing pityingly at him.

Merlin lowered the mug. ‘Who, then? Who needs to drink it?’

She told him.

 

\--

 

As it turned out, his magic was surprisingly unhelpful in the task of creating a human-shaped figure out of sand. He grasped handfuls of wet sand and pressed them together like a child playing on a beach. He tried not to look at the spot from where he was digging up sand; with every scoop, it looked more and more like a shallow grave.

When he had a roughly human-shaped figure of sand next to him, he sat back and wiped his brow. He took a drink of water from his flask before setting it down and pressing his finger against where the corner of the sand-figure’s lips would have been, had it had a face. He drew his finger in a shaky mouth-shaped line against the damp sand, cupped water from the well into his hand, and spilled it into the slit he had made.

Around him, the night didn’t stir. Everything was silvery in the moonlight, and Merlin was exhausted. He curled up beside his creation and slept for the first time in three days.

 

\--

 

He awoke to the sound of trickling water. He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, instantly craving tea. 

But tea would have to wait until later. What he had assumed to be trickling water was, in reality, the sound of a naked man urinating against one of the stone walls of the space surrounding the well. His back was to Merlin, but Merlin recognised him anyway. There was no mistaking the proud set of his shoulders, the way that golden hair shone in the light from the sun. Every knob on that spine was familiar, every scar on the bare back a memory vividly remembered.

‘Arthur?’

The man turned around. He was still holding his soft cock, shaking the last drops from it, his lips pursed disdainfully at the realisation that there was apparently nothing handy to wipe himself off with.

Merlin struggled to his feet, not taking his eyes off the man in front of him. ‘It worked,’ he said, more to himself than to the other man. ‘It actually worked.’

‘What are you on about?’ the man said irritably. ‘Speak up, would you?’

Merlin laughed with relief. ‘It worked,’ he said, more loudly this time. ‘You’re back. I brought you back.’

He walked up to Arthur, who was looking a little bemused now. Merlin reached up to touch his face. His skin was soft and warm. He was alive.

He didn’t realise he was crying until Arthur touched his face, his brow wrinkling with confusion at the wetness on his fingers. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘And why are you crying?’

 

\--

 

So Arthur didn’t remember anything. It was no big deal. Merlin would remind him. He would remind him about everything from their first meeting in the marketplace to their shared destiny, and everything would be all right.

 

\--

 

The first task was to clothe Arthur and find some sort of shelter for them. Merlin was half-inclined to take them back to the urban world but decided against it, reluctant to take them away just then from the source of Arthur’s resurrection. There would be time enough to explore the world together once they’d sorted Arthur’s memories out.

It wasn’t difficult to alter his extra set of clothes so they’d fit Arthur. They were almost the same height, but Arthur was broader at the waist and shoulders. It took a couple of tries until his clothes fit Arthur; his magic was obviously as exhausted as the rest of him, and he hadn’t actively used it in a while.

He stood back to appraise his work. Arthur was dressed much the same as him, in worn dark trousers and a plain white cotton shirt; his feet were bare because Merlin didn’t have an extra set of boots. He’d magic some for Arthur when he felt stronger. He’d offered his own, but Arthur had scoffed at the idea.

‘They look like they’d stink.’

‘Nice to know some things haven’t changed,’ Merlin muttered. He started up the slope of sand leading up to the path.

‘Where are you going?’

Merlin smiled at the demanding tone, not bothering to fight the rush of love that went through him. ‘To find you some shelter, your highness. We have work to do.’

 

\--

 

They found a cave not unlike Porphyria’s. Merlin had come across it before in his initial search of the oasis, and had marvelled at the millennia-old paintings on its walls, simple sketches of people swimming, undeniable proof that there had once been expanses of water in the area large enough to swim in, and that a long-gone culture had once thrived in what was now the desert.

Arthur stood outside the cave, hands on his hips, while Merlin set down his bags and began unpacking his supplies. ‘You said I was a king, Merlin. Is this cave my kingdom, then?’

Merlin grinned. He pulled out some fruit and strips of dry salted meat from his bag. ‘Sit down and eat, and let me tell you a story.’

 

\--

 

Arthur took a long swallow from the flask of water, washing down his last morsel of bread and cheese. He’d listened attentively, asking questions at all the right places, and Merlin couldn’t help feeling a fond sense of pride at how intelligent he was.

Merlin’s palm was still out, his little ball of blue light flickering out. He squeezed his hand shut, feeling drained. He’d demonstrated his magic with other little tricks while telling his story. Arthur had needed proof that he was telling the truth.

‘You said,’ Arthur began after a few minutes of silence, still staring at Merlin’s hand. ‘When I was dying, you said I asked you to hold me.’

Merlin blinked, staring at him. After everything he’d been told, _that_ was what Arthur wanted to talk about?

‘What were we, Merlin? What was I to you?’

‘Everything,’ Merlin said. 

Arthur crawled over to him, his large hands grasping Merlin’s hips. He bent his head over Merlin’s. ‘Yeah?’ 

Merlin nodded. His fingers found their way into Arthur’s hair. He’d washed it more times than he could remember, Arthur sitting in his bath, weary from his responsibilities, and Merlin kneeling behind him. But this was the first time he’d been allowed to touch it like this, for no reason other than that he could, that Arthur wanted him to.

They kissed for long minutes, Arthur’s mouth moving on Merlin’s like they’d done this a thousand times. His hands travelled on Merlin’s back, under his shirt, gliding against his skin. There was something too gentle about his mouth and his hands, as though they were waiting for permission for more. Merlin had always thought that Arthur would be more demanding if they were to do this, that he would take what he wanted and know that Merlin wanted the same, but this Arthur didn’t know Merlin at all.

 

\--

 

‘It’s not him,’ Merlin said into the cup of weak tea that tasted like herbs. He looked up. ‘Is it? It’s not just that he doesn’t have Arthur’s memories. He’s not Arthur.’

When she looked at him over the fire flickering between them, Porphyria’s face had that same look of pity on it as it had had when he’d been at the well, struggling to understand how to make it work. They were sitting outside her cave, orange light all around them from the setting sun. ‘The well is deceitful.’

‘Yes, you said that already,’ Merlin said, a bite of impatience in his voice. ‘Why didn’t you tell me it wouldn’t really be him?’

She shrugged. ‘It was for you to find out, not for me to say.’

‘That is such a load of crap. Have you met Kilgharrah? Because you remind me a lot of him.’

‘And you ignored my words, as you have often ignored the words of others older and wiser than you.’ 

‘I had no choice.’

‘There are always choices.’

‘What choice do I have now? Do I change him back into sand?’ His words were more bitter now, and difficult to force out. 

‘You cannot.’

‘What do you mean, I can’t?’

‘The thing you created will survive, invincible unless confronted with the original image in which it was formed.’

‘That’s great.’ Merlin stared moodily into the fire, scrunching his toes into the sand. He’d finally convinced Arthur to start wearing his boots. ‘That’s just fucking great.’

Arthur appeared in the distance, walking toward them.

‘He will do as you say,’ Porphyria said, her voice surprisingly gentle. ‘There is a power in that.’

‘I never wanted that. I never wanted to control him, ever.’

They watched as Arthur drew closer, stopping when he reached Merlin’s side. ‘You’ve been away for hours,’ he said.

When they reached their cave, Merlin pushed Arthur back against the wall and dropped to his knees, wrenching open the front of Arthur’s trousers. His cock was thick and hard in Merlin’s mouth, his hands frustratingly gentle in Merlin’s hair. 

Merlin pulled back. ‘Fuck my mouth, for fuck’s sake.’

Arthur obeyed, grasping Merlin’s hair so tightly that it hurt, making Merlin gag on his cock.

 

\--

 

Arthur didn’t protest much when Merlin stopped calling him by his name. He laughed at Merlin and said that ‘Sandman’ was a ridiculous name. Merlin didn’t care that he wouldn’t respond to the name. He couldn’t be bothered to find another.

 

\--

 

They’d been in the desert for weeks when Merlin finally gave in to the longing to be fucked.

He’d fucked Sandman once, frustrated from his efforts to find answers and making use of the one outlet for release that was always around. By then, he set up his laboratory in the cave, getting Sandman to find all the wood and large stones that could be used to create makeshift tables. One use that the passage of time had had was that where herbs and potions were all that science had once offered him, progress had now made it possible to combine magic with science in a way that not even Gaius could have foretold.

The downside—one of them, anyway—of having Sandman around was that every day that he existed took more of Merlin’s magic away, sucking it from Merlin. Merlin was weak, no more than human without his abilities, while his creation thrived, full of health and energy and lust. 

‘Hold me down,’ he said. Sandman had gotten quite adept at anticipating Merlin’s needs, and his hands were instantly around Merlin’s wrists, pressing him down against the thin mattress. Merlin wriggled under him, a thrum of arousal welling up inside him. He couldn’t get free. 

He was kissed hungrily, an eager mouth biting at his, and strong thighs over his own, keeping him pinned down. ‘Tie me up,’ Merlin said, wrenching his mouth away from a devouring kiss and gasping out the words. ‘Use your belt.’

He rolled over on to his front, crossing his wrists behind his back. They were bound swiftly. He heard the sound of tearing cloth—one of his shirts, probably—and then a strip was pushed between his teeth and tied off behind his head, effectively gagging him. He groaned with approval, pushing his hips up as his arse cheeks were pulled apart and a hot mouth came down on his hole, a thick tongue pushed relentlessly against it as though in a parody of an open-mouthed kiss, the rim of his hole opening under the onslaught. He moaned as the tip of the tongue pushed inside him, his arse sucking needily on it.

‘More,’ he tried to say, although the word came out as a muffled, unintelligible moan. The tongue worked its way deeper inside him, a hard hand coming down against his left arse cheek with a harsh cracking sound. He pushed back for more, and was rewarded with another stinging slap. 

He pushed down against the threadbare mattress, coming with nothing more than the meagre friction of it when the hand came down a third time. By the time oil was dribbled into his crack and roughly rubbed into his hole, he was hard again. 

He came again when he was being pounded from behind, a thick, hard cock penetrating him ruthlessly, hands like clamps holding his hips in place, his gag soaked with drool and a hot mouth against his ear, telling him every filthy thing that he wanted to hear.

 

\--

 

**[Now.]**

 

‘Porphyria!’ Merlin says again, kicking out at the wall. ‘Ow.’

‘Sit down, Merlin. You look ridiculous hopping about on one foot like that.’

Merlin slumps down against the wall, glaring. ‘Who are you? What are you?’

‘Oh, Merlin. You always were a little slow on the uptake.’ The blue eyes are fond, despite the sting of the words.

‘You were the slow one. I was lying to you for years, you fucking clotpole.’

Arthur shrugs. ‘Fair enough. You saved my life, Merlin. I haven’t forgotten that.’

Merlin turns away, his eyes stinging. ‘I let you die.’

‘Everything dies, Merlin. You saved me. Even when I died, you were the one who saved me, remember?’

‘You’re not making any sense.’ Merlin’s voice is thick with tears. 

Arthur moves closer. They can’t touch, but it’s warmer with Arthur right next to him. ‘You haven’t forgiven yourself. And you look really terrible, Merlin.’ Arthur’s gaze rakes over him from head to toe, and Merlin squirms. ‘Is that what they’re wearing these days?’

Merlin lets out a weak laugh, resting his back against the cold wall behind him. ‘Jerk.’

Arthur looks and looks, as though he’s drinking in his fill of Merlin, and Merlin isn’t that uncomfortable anymore. He lets Arthur look. 

‘I’ve missed you, you know,’ Arthur says. He’s wearing his favourite pair of riding boots, and his foot is very close to Merlin’s. 

‘I’ve missed you too.’ Merlin keeps his eyes shut for a moment. ‘You don’t even know.’

‘I think I can guess.’ Arthur’s eyes crinkle a little at the corners again, and then they’re both smiling like fools, heads turned toward each other.

‘What’s it like where you are?’ Merlin asks after a while, not taking his eyes off Arthur’s face.

Arthur shrugs again. ‘Different, I suppose. I can’t really describe it. You’d have to be there.’ 

Merlin snorts. ‘Very eloquent, sire.’

‘Idiot,’ Arthur says.

‘Prat,’ Merlin says on reflex. ‘When are you coming back?’

‘I can’t tell you that, Merlin.’

‘Why not?’

‘I think you know.’ Arthur’s eyes are sad, full of concern, and Merlin knows why.

‘You can’t tell me anything I don’t already know, because you’re not really you.’ Merlin looks down at his hands. ‘Why aren’t you ever really you?’

‘I’m sorry, Merlin. I’m so sorry.’

‘I don’t even… I can’t even use my magic anymore, you know that? Because of him.’

‘Him?’

‘Well, you. Technically, at least.’

‘You’re the one who isn’t making any sense, Merlin. Who’s got your magic?’

‘Shouldn’t you already know that, if you’re just in my head?’ 

Arthur merely keeps staring at him expectantly, and Merlin sighs.

‘This bloke I made. Out of sand. Looks like you. And he hasn’t got my magic, not really. It’s just… it’s taking all my magic to keep him alive.’

Arthur looks aghast. ‘You _made_ him? You made someone who looks like me? Why would you do that, Merlin?’

‘Why do you think?’ Merlin turns away, face heating with shame.

‘Oh, Merlin,’ Arthur says again. His voice is very soft. Merlin doesn’t want to look up and see the pity in his eyes.

‘Is he hurting you? Merlin, look at me.’ Merlin glances up to see Arthur’s gaze on his wrists, which still have light bruises from being bound.

‘It’s not like that,’ he says quickly. ‘He… I asked him to.’

‘You asked him to hurt you? Bruise you? Why the fuck would you do that?’

‘Because I’m messed up, okay? Because I’m so fucked up that the only time I can forget about everything is when I’m being held down and screwed. I can’t even fucking sleep without dreaming, and it’s been centuries. Fucking centuries, Arthur. Do you have any idea what that’s like? Going through the motions, trying to breathe, trying to make things right, when I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing? Trying to pretend I’m fine when all I want to do is end this charade of a life I’m living?’

Arthur doesn’t say anything, but he shifts closer, his hand hovering just above Merlin’s knee. 

‘I read a lot, you know? I have a whole fucking library. There was this one book I didn’t have to read, but I read it anyway. At the end of the book, there’s this character who’s stuck in a tree during a flood, and as if that’s not enough, there’s a tiger watching her, waiting to pounce. And she thinks of reasons to live, she wonders about what would happen if she got out alive, about what she could use as an alibi to go on living. Sometimes I think I’m her. Sometimes I’m the tiger. Maybe all I am is really just the tree.’

Arthur bends his head, his phantom lips against Merlin’s shoulder, his fingers resting on top of Merlin’s hand, light as air. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he murmurs. ‘As long as you have your alibi for a life, it doesn’t matter if you’re the woman or the tiger or the tree, Merlin.’

Merlin curls up against him and closes his eyes. 

 

\--

 

He wakes up slowly, still half in a dream, reaching out. His hand collides with the fallen cup.

‘What was in that drink?’ His voice is hoarse, as though he hasn’t used it for ages.

Porphyria is sitting at the edge of the large flat rock she uses as a table. ‘Water from the well,’ she says simply. It’s probably the first time she’s actually answered a question without speaking in riddles.

‘Was it a dream? Was it real?’ He gets to his feet, still a little groggy. ‘Was that really him? Answer me, damn it.’

‘I don’t know what you saw, Merlin. Only you can decide that.’

He doesn’t press for more, already knowing the answer.

 

\--

 

The moon’s up as he walks out of Porphyria’s cave, spilling silver all over the desert. It’s cold, the feel of the night always shocking after the heat of the day. Merlin’s come to develop an objective sort of appreciation for the desert, a kind of love, even, at how autonomously it functions, free from artifice and guilt.

He walks for a while, his bare toes sinking into the sand. He’d gone to a beachside town a few years ago, spent a few days there, walked barefoot in the sand. There was a reason he’d gone there, someone to meet, answers that could have been found, but he doesn’t remember now. He’s gotten used to forgetting the unimportant things, so that he doesn’t forget the important ones. He remembers the way a broken piece of glass had cut into his foot, blood spilling on to the white sand. There are no shards of glass in the desert, no danger from anything the desert has to offer.

He makes his way toward the well. He may not be able to use his magic just then, but he has two hands, and he has a will. He starts with one handful of sand, throwing it into the water like a fistful of earth thrown into a grave. He spills sand into the well handful by handful, watching it disappear into the shallow water. There’s no hope that the sand will overwhelm the water, but he keeps at his task anyway.

After a while, he hears footsteps behind him. ‘What are you doing?’

Merlin doesn’t answer. 

‘Trying to get rid of me?’ The tone is surprising, really. Merlin would have expected him to sound a little more scornful, a little less miffed. 

‘Bit slow on the uptake, aren’t you?’ he says without turning around. 

‘You sound happy. Why do you sound happy?’ He’s suspicious now, as though he thinks Merlin knows some secret that he doesn’t have access to.

‘You wouldn’t get it,’ Merlin wants to say, but he doesn’t. He’s not that cruel. When he finally turns around, he’s alone.

He returns to the cave a while later. Sandman’s not there, but that’s all right. He’ll come back. (He always does.)


End file.
